


Familiar Concepts

by theimprobable1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 07:41:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimprobable1/pseuds/theimprobable1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee,” Sherlock says, and for a moment Molly is so relieved that it isn’t some tragic news that she doesn’t immediately register the actual content of the sentence.</p><p>“Coffee?” she repeats, and a part of her curses Sherlock’s timing, thinking about how excited her younger self would have been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Familiar Concepts

Molly stretches in her chair as the computer shuts down, stifling a yawn. She’s had an incredibly tiring couple of days at work and has only just finished her paperwork. She’s looking forward to going home, reheating her chicken casserole and then curling up on the sofa with a cup of tea and an episode of… anything, really, because the fact is that she’s sort of hoping to spend the hour texting a certain someone rather than actually watching anything. She has a feeling that tonight the text flirting might finally lead to Greg asking her out. There’s a barely contained giddy feeling at the bottom of Molly’s stomach when she thinks about the possibility.

And that is exactly the moment that Sherlock Holmes chooses to stride in. Molly starts a little, feeling like she’s been caught doing something forbidden, and hopes that Sherlock can’t read her thoughts in the shade of her skin.

“Sherlock! You startled me. Need anything?”

“Ah, Molly,” Sherlock says, like it’s a surprise to see her. “Good that you’re still here. I need a pair of lungs, fresh. Preferably a non-smoker.” He seems a bit restless, almost jittery, and Molly wonders if he’s just had a bit too many coffees on an empty stomach or if there is something else.

“Oh, um. You know I told you to text me beforehand when you need something, I can’t just…”

“I’m sure you could,” Sherlock says, and he’s doing that thing again, the voice and the _look_ , and it doesn’t really matter that the days of her stupid infatuation are long past and that she knows herself to be halfway to falling head over heels for someone completely different, she still feels the pull, the almost irresistible urge to do whatever Sherlock wants.

“I’m sure I couldn’t,” she says, voice more firm than she feels, standing up to feel less intimidated by him. “You don’t want me to get fired, do you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Molly,” Sherlock scoffs. “Nobody with half a brain would fire you, you’re the only one working here who isn’t a complete idiot, they’d be lost without you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Molly says, even as she feels herself blush.

“It used to get me everywhere,” Sherlock all but pouts.

“Yes, well.” Molly clears her throat. “Learn the new ways. I’ll text you tomorrow if I can get something for you.”

Sherlock pulls a face, but he grumbles “Fine” more readily than Molly would expect him to. Then, instead of striding out of the lab in one swish of coat, he keeps standing there, looking at Molly with an intensity that is both familiar and unsettlingly new at the same time.

She bears his scrutiny for a moment before saying, “Did you need anything else?” to dispel the sudden tension.

“I,” Sherlock says, and then stops to clear his throat, and it occurs to Molly that Sherlock is _nervous,_ and that’s all kinds of wrong and it makes Molly worry. Only once had Molly seen Sherlock uncertain, and that led to some very unhappy times for a lot of people, and Molly really doesn’t want to revisit those times again.

“I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee,” Sherlock says, and for a moment Molly is so relieved that it isn’t some tragic news that she doesn’t immediately register the actual content of the sentence.

“Coffee?” she repeats, and a part of her curses Sherlock’s timing, thinking about how excited her younger self would have been.

“I’m told it’s customary for friends to meet over a cup of coffee to… chat,” he says the last word like it tastes bad in his mouth.

“Chat,” she repeats again, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“ _Yes_. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept. You can even tell me about your painfully obvious interest in Lestrade, I’ll do my best not to groan too loudly. Though I would prefer if we could keep the conversation to some less mind-numbing topics.”

Molly stares at him. Sherlock shifts uncomfortably.

“I don’t have a week for this, Molly. If you could answer me that would be splendid.”

“Yes,” Molly says. What else could she say? “Of course, yes, I just…” She blinks at him, wondering what the world is coming to if Sherlock Holmes is asking her out for coffee. They’re friends now, yes, but their friendship involves body parts and fake death certificates, not coffee and _chatting._ “Do you mind if we have dinner instead? It’s a bit late for caffeine for me, and I haven’t eaten for hours.”

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock says, probably just to be contrary.

“You don’t have to eat,” Molly tells him. “That’s what you and John do all the time, isn’t it?” It hits her as she says it, the reason why Sherlock’s here, alone, asking for body parts he knows Molly won’t give him: John is away on honeymoon. This right here is Sherlock Holmes feeling a bit lonely and asking for company. She bites her tongue.

“Fine,” Sherlock shrugs, not meeting her eyes

He takes her to a small Greek restaurant. On the way there he tells Molly about how he and John saved the owner from marrying a marriage impostor. He seems more like himself when he’s talking about it, but Molly notices the little tells, the way Sherlock tries to avoid mentioning John name but the story seems to revolve around him anyway, and she almost wants to hug him, although she knows that would hardly be welcome.

The owner is a woman in her early fifties who seems overjoyed to see Sherlock, and enquires about his “colleague”, the crinkle of her eyes clearly implying that she doesn’t really think colleagues is all they are. Sherlock deflects her question, jaw tense.

“So, how have you been?” Molly asks after they have been seated, trying to ignore the awkwardness. “I haven’t seen you since the…” _the wedding_ , she’s about to say, and cringes. She really should have her mouth sewn together, shouldn’t she? The wedding, where Sherlock smiled and danced with Molly and Mrs Hudson and even Mary and gave a touching speech, and tried not to be too obvious about spending most of the reception alone nursing a glass of wine in a corner, tried not to let John notice how little fun he was having. John, understandably, only had eyes for Mary, so Sherlock managed to fool him, but certainly not Molly. It probably isn’t the best thing to remind him about.

Sherlock shrugs. “Bored.”

“No interesting cases?”

“One locked room double homicide, could’ve been solved in a day but Anderson managed to ruin all important evidence as always. Not much else.”

“When is John coming back?” Molly asks carefully.

She sees Sherlock twitch out of the corner of her eye. 

“He isn’t,” he says quietly.

“Of course he is,” Molly says, looking up. “They’re not planning to move to Tenerife permanently, are they?”

“They got a place in Wandsworth,” Sherlock says as if it was the same thing, snapping the menu shut.

“That’s not that far.”

Sherlock scowls at the table and says nothing.

“He won’t stop being your friend, you know,” she tells him. A waitress comes to take their order, and when she leaves, Sherlock looks out of the window.

“Do you think…” he begins, then falters. “When I was… away. You kept telling me I should let him know. If I had, do you think he wouldn’t have…?”

“I… well, I don’t know. He might have met Mary anyway, or someone else.”

“But he might not have… left.”

Molly looks at him and wonders what it’s like in his head.

“He didn’t get married to _punish_ you, Sherlock. It’s not your fault he doesn’t feel that way about you. It isn’t his fault either. People can’t help these things.”

Sherlock looks up at her, eyes sharp.

“What way?” he says without inflection, voice low and dangerous. It makes Molly press her back firmly against her backrest, trying to make herself smaller. She likes him and she knows he likes her, but his intensity is still a bit too much for her at times. She doesn’t know how she could ever have imagined she would be able to be in a relationship with him.

“Well, you know. The way you feel about him,” she says, bumbling a little, as if it was her own feelings she was pointing out.

His eyes bore into her, pale and unreadable, and she tries not to flinch.

“I never get your limits, Molly Hooper,” he says. 

It’s weird to think he didn’t know she knew. She never said anything, granted, but she would have thought he would have read it in her face when she looked at him. She shrugs and blushes, not knowing where to look. 

“Is that how you used to feel?” he asks so quietly she barely hears him. “About… about me?”

Molly hesitates, caught off guard.

“No, I… I don’t think so,” she says slowly. “I didn’t really know you, did I? You can’t be properly in love with someone you don’t know.”

The Sherlock Molly used to have a crush on was a made up version of him, an illusion that looked like him. She imagined him like some kind of strange cross between Mr Darcy and Mr Rochester, a Byronic hero, a tortured soul misunderstood by society, waiting for Molly’s love to thaw his heart, discover the gentle core hiding behind a stony façade, the Beast to Molly’s Belle (with reversed levels of attractiveness, of course). Now… she couldn’t really say she knows him, but he’s become a real person to her, brilliant but human. And it’s not that she’d been entirely wrong about him – Sherlock does have a softer side, Molly may not have _seen_ it but she’s caught enough glimpses and hints of it to know it’s real, but what she had failed to consider before – what she had preferred not to see – was that the rest of him is also real, the volatility and rudeness and lack of empathy, that it’s not just a façade or a defence mechanism.

She wonders if anyone can really know Sherlock Holmes properly, if John does, or if the strange workings of his mind set him apart from everyone. 

“Nevertheless, I’m…” he clears his throat, “It’s become apparent that I may have treated you in a way that wasn’t entirely appropriate. You… didn’t deserve that.”

It’s the second time Sherlock has apologised to her, and Molly knows neither of those cases would have happened without John’s influence. So many things wouldn’t have happened without him. If she’s honest, Molly is pretty sure Sherlock would dead by now.

“It’s… okay,” Molly says softly, more touched than Sherlock’s apology disguised as a statement of fact probably warrants. “I mean, it _wasn’t_ okay, but you’re forgiven now.”

Sherlock nods and looks out of the window again. They remain quiet for a while and Molly feels an unexpectedly strong feeling bloom in her chest. Being friends with Sherlock Holmes is a bit like being friends with a wild animal that has been only partially tamed – rewarding but a bit terrifying at the same time, and she wishes she could reach out and pet him without having to fear that she’ll have her hand bitten off.  
“Lestrade seems to think that he’s too old for you,” Sherlock says. “It would be useful if you could disabuse him of that notion; the Met is on the brink of utter incompetence as it is and Lestrade’s lovesick sighing isn’t helping matters. I can’t do all their work for them.”

And that, Molly thinks, is Sherlock Holmes giving them his blessing.

“That’s silly, he’s not _old,_ ” she says, but then it occurs to her that maybe _she’s_ too young for _him_ , maybe he doesn’t want someone who still likes dancing in her pyjamas with a hairbrush for a microphone and putting ribbons on her cat.

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Oh God, you’re just as bad as him,” he groans. “He likes you, you like him,” he says it like the words make bile rise in his throat, “it’s obvious to everyone with one functioning brain cell, yet you insist on dancing around each other and wallowing in insecurities like a pair of idiots instead of _getting on with it_ while you have the chance.”

Molly’s kneejerk reaction is to hunch her shoulders and bow her head, make herself smaller under the scorn, but she remembers herself in time.

“No need to be rude about it, Sherlock,” she says. It comes out much milder than she intended, but that’s alright. Sherlock glances at her, then shifts in his seat, looking away.

“I merely meant,” he says in the overly formal tone that means he knows he should apologise, “that your misgivings are unfounded. All evidence indicates that you two would be remarkably well suited.”

“Oh,” Molly says, a blush creeping up her face. “That’s… thanks.”

Their food arrives at that moment, rather fortunately. 

Molly remembers the time when, during her second year at university, everyone around her suddenly paired up and she seemed to be the only one left single. He wonders briefly if Sherlock feels a little bit like that now, but she dismisses the idea quickly. It seems preposterous that Sherlock’s feelings could be anything like Molly’s, and anyway, she knows that no one but John really matters to Sherlock. She’s lost track of the times when Sherlock called her by John’s name while absorbed in an experiment or research, and she knows now that when Sherlock is focused on something, everything else disappears, and the only thing that always has its place in Sherlock’s mind, apart from the work, is John. A fixed point. The thought of Sherlock without him makes her heart ache, but there’s nothing she can do. She can’t even wish for things to change – how could she possibly wish for the breakup of a happy new marriage? That would be horrible of her. Mary is so lovely and John loves her and they seem so perfect together that Molly can’t even be angry with them for breaking Sherlock’s neglected heart, even though it’s Sherlock who’s her friend and Molly’s loyalty will always be with him. It makes her feel so helpless – if Sherlock were someone else, she could at least watch a tearjerker with him and share an unhealthy amount of ice cream and give him a hug and tell him that there’s plenty of other fish in the sea, but he’s Sherlock and he would scoff at all that, not to mention that she strongly suspects that his sea has the population of one. She can just do what she’s always done – let Sherlock in the morgue and in the lab even though she’s not supposed to, stand there next to him while he works, and hope for the best.

Sherlock tells her about the locked room case while she eats – he barely touches his lamb stew – and then Molly tells him about the post mortem she did on a man with _situs inversus incompletus_ (she thinks Sherlock might never forgive her for not letting him see it), and it’s nice, different from the way they usually are – working side by side in companionable silence – but nice.

Sherlock’s phone chimes while Molly is picking at his plate – it would be a crime to leave such a delicious meal untouched, not to mention it would probably offend the owner. A well-known glint appears in his eyes, and it makes Molly absurdly happy to see it.

“Case?” she asks.

Sherlock nods, and she can almost feel the sudden waves of excited energy radiating from him. “It’s Dimmock, not Lestrade, by the way,” he adds before she has the chance to be disappointed that Greg won’t have the time to text her if he’s working. “He’s much stupider, but at least he never works with Anderson.”

“You’re off, then?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, hastily throwing banknotes on the table, then he hesitates. “I – if you don’t mind.”

Molly smiles at him and shakes her head. Sherlock trying to be considerate is more endearing than it has any right to be. 

“Don’t forget about the lungs,” Sherlock tells her as they leave the restaurant.

“I won’t. Non-smoker. I’ll text you.” Molly has a feeling she’ll be seeing Sherlock at the morgue a bit more often now.

Sherlock looks at her intently outside the restaurant and for a moment it seems like he’s going to say something significant, but in the end he just nods at her with a small lopsided smile, and walks away.

Molly watches him as he walks towards the main road to flag a taxi. He cuts a striking figure like he always does, if a bit unbalanced by the absence of a shorter one next to him. Molly wants him to be happy with an intensity that’s almost painful.

She sighs, turning to walk in the opposite direction towards the nearest tube station. She takes out her phone to set a reminder for tomorrow about the lungs, and then, before she can lose her nerve, she texts Greg and invites him for dinner tomorrow. She’s only an average cook, but her culinary skills won’t be the point of his visit.

Greg’s answer – affirmative – is almost immediate, and it’s quickly followed by another text:

_He’s partial to mushrooms. SH_

Molly shakes her head at what definitely seems like mind-reading, and smiles.


End file.
